


A Study in Pink - A Novelisation

by cj_leigh



Series: The Complete Mis-Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and His Esteemed Blogger, Dr. John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon Compliant, M/M, Novelisation, Novelization, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:32:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cj_leigh/pseuds/cj_leigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's go back to the beginning and deduce what we can from subtle hints and looks, sacrifices and awakenings.  Let's use the Science of Deduction to tell the story of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, with more openness, more discovery, and much more love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Painful Entry Wound

In the middle of London, a small, claustrophobic rented room holding a bed, desk, and dresser, has become a sauna as its occupant twists and turns in his sleep.  A soft grunt, a whisper of fear, the man is trapped in his sweat-dampened bedsheets, face screwed up tight against the moments playing out behind his closed eyelids.  Gunfire, dust and smoke, flashes of grenades and shouting voices pound through his brain as though he is there again, reliving the horror and the shame of taking lives, of losing them, of staunching blood from gaping wounds and hearing the muffled cries of those in pain, of the dying. 

When a bomb goes off, you see it first, an explosion of whiteness that lights up a darkened battlefield.  Then the sound hits, and it stuns you.  You cower, you hide.  Everything goes white. The speed of light is faster than the speed of sound.

Dr. John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers wakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in his rented bed.  It takes but a moment for him to realise that he’s not in Afghanistan anymore, but in London, in a cheaply rented flat.  He closes his eyes for a moment, willing his heart to stop pounding, for his hands to stop shaking.  His breathing is laboured and it takes long minutes for him to calm it.  Eventually, unable to stop it, he begins to weep.

It takes a lot out of you, a war.  Not only because he was injured; a bullet wound to the left shoulder.  No.  It’s the horrific images he remembers.  The anxiety, the rush.  The adrenaline.

He loved the adrenaline.

_ Okay, not where your thoughts should go.  Let’s stop this right there._

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, John switches on the bedside lamp.  It’s still full-dark, and so he sits quietly, wrapped in his own thoughts, staring at the metal cane leaning against the desk across the small room.  A grimace crosses his face.

_ Bloody leg._

He won’t be sleeping again tonight.  Not if he can help it.

Time passes, and he doesn’t move, only watches the sliver of sunlight begin to show in the gap between the curtains.  Deep purple, dull grey, then finally, white morning sunlight that leaves patterns on the floor.

He wraps himself in an oatmeal-coloured dressing gown and limps across the room picking his cane up in the process.  His face is tired and haggard, scruff on his chin, light brown hair matted with dried sweat, blue eyes surrounded by dark circles.  Making himself a mug of tea from the little maker on the dresser, he turns back to the desk, setting the cup down.  The mug, bearing the arms of the Royal Army Medical Corps, almost seems to glare at him from it’s resting place.  He ignores it.

Opening the desk drawer, John pulls out an old laptop, beneath it, a British Army L9A1 Browning Unmodified rests, fully loaded.  He ignores this, too.  Guns don’t disturb him.  Maybe they should.

John loads the laptop to his new blog, The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.  The title is the only thing on the page, the rest blank.  He has no idea where to begin, nor does he really want to.  Leaving things where they lie inside is the best way to forget, or so he tells himself.  It’s too painful, opens too many old wounds, pun intended.  He gives a snort of derisive laughter, and slams the laptop cover shut.

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

“How’s your blog going?” Ella, his therapist, asks. Her legs are crossed as she leans in her chair.  Fairly relaxed, and focused entirely on him. 

John shifts uncomfortable within his chair.

“Yeah, good,” he clears his throat. “Very good.”

Ella eyes him with scrutiny.  “You haven’t written a word, have you.”  It isn’t a question; it’s a statement.

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues’.”

“And you read my writing upside down.  D’you see what I mean?”

He smiles, a bit awkwardly, but it’s genuine.  She’s smart.  Too bad she’s his therapist.  He likes smart women.

She continues, “John, you’re a soldier, and it’s gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”

It feels like a chasm has opened up in his heart, an ugly monster within waiting for him to start reliving his memories on paper — albeit digital paper — before it makes it’s final attack.  Before it truly kills him this time.

“Nothing happens to me,” he says.


	2. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock dons a disguise, discovers more about the current serial suicides, and has some fun with Lestrade.

The only light in the room is from the mobile phone.  It reflects off the face of the man who is holding it, revealing dark curls, high cheekbones, clear grey eyes.  He’s languidly leaning back in the chair of the rough kitchen table, utterly focused. It must be nearly two in the morning, but it doesn't seem to even register with him, this tall, lean man.

His eyes scroll past the words on the screen, and he commits to memory what he sees.

_Newspaper Article, published at least 48 hours after discovered, seemingly confident that the murder, oh,_ sorry _, the suicide is indeed just that – a suicide.  An empty pill bottle, clear and silver, no fingerprints.  Professional killer.  Victim's face in obvious pain, perhaps choked on his own vomit._

_Later, press conference, streaming video on YouTube. Come on,_ buffer, _damn you._ Victim's _– Sir Jeffrey Patterson? – wife, making a statement.  Victim was absolutely an adulterer, as shown by his wife's tearless sadness as she cries.  They obviously haven't been close in months. His assistant, nearly hysterical, off to the side. Mistress. No odd looks her way, their "secret" relationship is a well known fact. Mistake Number One: well-renowned politician committing suicide when he is in a high-ranking position, is capable of keeping a mistress and even seems happy about it? Unlikely._

_Never mind that, unimportant.  Sentiment.  Next victim, teenage boy, discovered in a Sports Centre, empty for the holiday.  Mistake Number Two: Found dead, had been crying.  Suicides are not usually accompanied by crying, but by calm as the victim knows they have made their choice to die and are calm, discovered in non-agitated states. Suicide unlikely._

_And third and finally, event reception, more successful people, Junior Minister for Transport throws a gala.  Girl gets drunk, friends can't keep track of her, and she disappears.  But where?  Discovered in a building site, of all place.  Close, yet remote.  Only a few blocks down but deserted enough to be an island.  Mistake Number Three: drunken girl was also found agitated, and her friends described her as lively and enjoying herself.  Why go to a building site, in the middle of a party, to commit suicide?  Unlikely._  

_Unlikely, unlikely, unlikely!_  

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective for nobody other than himself (and occasionally New Scotland Yard), quits his not-so-legal police database system, and throws his phone on the table in exasperation.  The incompetence!  The absolute inanity of the Yard and Inspector George Lestrade.  Gavin? Gabriel? It doesn't matter.  They have a bloody serial killer on their hands and they didn't even house suspicions about it. 

He would never admit it, but he's almost impressed by the new murderer's talent. 

"I'm BORED," he shouts, and chucks a mug from the table against the wall where it shatters, tea dripping down the wallpaper.

"Sherlock," a high female voice echoes through the hall downstairs.  "Is everything all right?" 

Sherlock looks up, and realises that several hours must have passed while he ruminated in his mind palace, the recesses of his mind, organised and neat, where every fact he had deemed worth remembering lay.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm just bloody bored.  Can you make some more tea?  This one's gotten all over the wall, it seems."

"Yes, Sherlock dear, but I'm not your housekeeper."

"And some biscuits, too."

"Not your housekeeper." 

Fifteen minutes later, with a cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits in front of him, Sherlock suddenly smiles.

He's had a brilliant idea.

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

The press conference has assembled in the room set aside for this exact purpose at the New Yard.  Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, grey-haired, medium build, in his usual black jacket and jeans (why dress up for a bloody press conference thank-you-very-much) sits behind the banquet table waiting for his colleague, Detective Sally Donavan, finish giving their decided statement.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site i Greater London," she says, curly hair bobbing around her face. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide.  We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson, and James Phillimore.  In the light of this, these incidents are not being treated as linked.  The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

Okay, here goes.

The first reporter's hand is in the air less than a second after Donovan finishes talking.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"

Lestrade sits up straighter in his chair, wondering almost exactly the same thing.  How the bloody fuck are these related.  Oh well, just throw something out there and make the fishes bite, yeah?

"Well," he begins, "they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown and prior indication of–"

The damned woman interrupts.  Reporters, they're all the same.

"But you can't have serial suicides."

Lestrade can't resist.  "Well, apparently you can."

A second reporter lifts his pen in the air to ask his question.  "These three people: there's nothing that links them?"

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it.  There has to be one."

Suddenly, every single mobile in the room goes off.  Rings, vibrations, the air is filled with a technological birdsong.

Somewhere in the audience, Sherlock sits in disguise – one of his specialities – and watches the proceedings with interest, completely invisible to Lestrade or his colleague.

Lestrade looks down at his own phone.

 

**WRONG!**

 

Donavan looks down at her phone as well.  "If you've all got texts, please ignore them."

The first reporter, who's starting to appear a bit feisty, like the one kid in class who always points out who's made a mistake, says "It just says 'Wrong'."

"Yeah, well, just ignore that.  Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring the session to an end."

The second reporter begins again, "but if they're suicides, what are you investigating?"

Lestrade feels sweat beading on his palms.

"As I say, these...these suicides are clearly linked.  Um, it's an...it's an unusual situation.  We've got our best people investigating..."

The birdsong ensues again, as everyone in the room looks at their mobiles.  

**WRONG!**

Sherlock can almost not contain himself in the middle of the crowd, watching them flinch and flutter about like someone who's stepped in the middle of an ant trail and ruined the scent.  They're lost.  What do they believe?  He contains himself.

The first woman, who has thoroughly proved herself to be annoying, pipes up as though the entire room doesn't already know, "It says 'Wrong' again."

Lestrade can't take it anymore, he looks at Donovan, who takes the hint.

"One more question." 

"Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

_Ah, a lucky guess,_ Sherlock thinks.  _He's either actually good at this or just wishing it is.  Lucky him._

"I...I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides.  We know the difference.  The, um, the poison was clearly self-administered."

"Yes, but if they _are_ murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"

"Well, don't commit suicide." Lestrade smiles.  Honestly, is this over yet?"

Donovan closes her eyes briefly and puts a hand in front of her mouth.  "Daily Mail," she mutters.

Lestrade grimaces, and looks to the reporters again, getting a hold of himself. 

"Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions.  We are all safe as we want to be. 

Buzz, ring, vibrate.

**WRONG!**

 

Lestrade checks his phone, but it doesn't have the same message.  Instead, it reads:

 

**You know where to find me.**

**SH**

"Thank you," he says, and leaves the room.

Sherlock, leaving with the other reporters, sneaks around the building and overhears a conversation between Lestrade and Donovan, giving himself a sharp stab of satisfaction.

"You've got to stop him doing that.  He's making us look like idiots."

"To Sherlock, we are idiots.  If you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, and he grabs his coat from where it's hidden behind a bush.  Shaking it out and whirling it around himself, he stalks off.

The last person in the world to admit that he's a drama queen is Sherlock himself.  But what a good show it was.


	3. Mild Friendships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John meets an old friend, Sherlock plays with a corpse, and Molly mans up and asks him out.

John, finally out of the depressing rented flat, breathes in the cool afternoon air as he limps through the park that's within walking distance.  It's an interesting feeling, walking in the London park after being in Afghanistan for so long, where a walk meant trekking through burnt red sands under blistering suns, seeing the starved children run around him, almost afraid, but curiosity winning out in their innocent minds.

A walk meant running for cover as soon as hostiles started to open fire on his patrol group. 

His hand trembles, and he quashes the thoughts from his mind.

_This is England,_ he tells himself, _if anyone is starving here, it's their own damned choice._

He's so lost in thought that he barely hears what's going on around him, until something resembling a shout reaches his ears.

"John! John Watson!" 

John turns, leaning against his cane for support, and then only on his own two feet.  A man sits on a bench near him, standing up with a hand outstretched.  He's in a grey jacket, has thinning dark hair...and, if he's not much mistaken, weighs quite a bit more than the last time he and John had met.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford.  We were at Bart's together," the man says, giving John an amicable smile.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike."  He takes Mike's hand and attempts a smile.

_He sure got fat._

"Yeah, I know, I got fat," Mike says, and John holds his composure until he realises that he didn't actually speak his thoughts aloud.

"No," he says, rather unconvincingly.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

John can't help it.  He gives a grimace of a smile, gesturing to his cane.  Mike was never one for tact.

"I got shot."

He almost feels remorse at the guilty look on his old friend's face.

Almost.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 

A few awkward apologies later, and the two men are sitting on another bench, each with a steaming cup of coffee in their hands.

"God, that's one thing I missed about London," John says, trying to keep on a good face _act normal_ , "the bloody coffee."

Mike laughs, making some noncommittal comment, and as soon as John turns his head to survey the park, looks worriedly at the younger man.

The silence stretches on for a minute or two, but it's less awkward now, more understanding.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" John asks.

"Teaching now.  Bright young things, like we used to be.  God, I hate them," Mike grins and for a moment, John can see Mike as he used to be, a rowdy kid, going 'round al the bars and making a mess of things.

Somewhere in there, Mike still lives.  The real Mike, the one who was a fun twenty-something kid when they met. Somewhere in there, Mike is the same as he's always been, unchanged by trauma or time.

John almost hates him for it.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'till you get yourself sorted?"

John lets out a heavy laugh.

"I can't afford anything in London on an army pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else.  That's not the John Watson I know," Mike says.

"I'm not the John Watson..." John stops, realising how that's going to sound, how that sounds almost...pitiable.

Mike catches the awkward pause, and once again, the two are pushed into silence.

_This is absolutely fucking awful.  Just fucking awful._

For some reason, the thought almost seems funny.  John smiles slightly, seeing the irony in the situation.  It was actually kind of amusing.  Really.

Then his hand trembles, and he's forced to switch the coffee cup he's holding to the other hand, squeezing his now-empty fist to try to control it.

_Damn my leg. Damn, Damn, Damn…_

“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asks, obviously trying to be helpful.  But it’s not, not really.  Not helpful at all.

_Come on, Watson, get a fucking_ hold _of yourself._

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen!” John can’t keep the almost bitter sarcasm out of his voice.

Mike shrugs.  “I dunno, get a flatshare or something?”

“Come on, who’d want me for a flatmate?” 

Mike chuckles and gives John a look that says…John doesn’t know what.

He can’t take the secret look anymore.

“What?” 

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today,” Mike says. 

John doesn’t even pause before he asks the obvious question.

“Who was the first?”

 * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Farther into London, Sherlock Holmes is cold.

It’s cold, in a morgue.  Especially this one.  St. Bartholomew’s Hospital has a power-cooler in the morgue.

Without further adieu, he unzips the body bag and peers at the corpse inside.

He sniffs.

“How fresh?”

The morgue attendant – _pathologist, I think? Must remember that, could be useful_ –  walks over.

“Just in,” she says.  “Sixty-seven, natural causes.  He used to work here, I knew him.  He was nice.”

Sherlock straightens up and re-zips the bag, and her last statement filters through to his primary auditory cortex. _Ah, this is where I’m supposed to do something…sentimental._

He smiled but it must have been more like a grimace.  Her eyes went wide, and she almost took a step back, but only almost.

_Well that didn’t work._

“Fine, we’ll start with the riding crop.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 

_ Thwack! Thwack! _

The riding crop whistled through the air, making wet cracks against the dead flesh.  Like slapping a goose about to go into the oven on Christmas.  The skin didn’t break, and the body was not yet in _rigor mortis_ , so he had some time yet before this experiment would be useless.

Molly watches from a nearby observation room, wincing each time the crop connects with the man she knew.  Her breath catches, and she looks at him with something like…admiration. 

Sherlock pays no attention to her, but keeps on beating the corpse until he finishes.  He’s breathless and ruffled, eyes brighter than normal.  From what, though?  Beating the corpse?  Having an audience?  Molly sure hopes it’s the latter.

“So, bad day, was it,” she says, trying to make some form of conversation. 

He takes out a notebook and writes something down quickly, barely looking at her.  She waits, seemingly on edge.  He glances up. 

“I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes.  A man’s alibi depends on it.  Text me.”

Glancing down again at the notebook, he looks as though he’s about to get absorbed again.  She tries to fit in her timid, little query before she loses his focus entirely. 

“I was wondering, maybe later, when you’re finished…” 

Sherlock glances up at her again, and she trails off as he looks at her more intently. 

“Are you wearing lipstick?  You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

“I…er…refreshed it a bit,” she replies, and tries to give him what she hopes – to him – appears as a flirtatious smile. 

She blushes, and waits.  Perhaps this time…? 

But no.  His look is oblivious as always, and he returns to writing in his notebook.Probably deeming what she had to say sentimental, she supposes. 

“Sorry, you were saying?” Sherlock gestures impatiently in a “go on,” gesture. 

Molly stands up straighter and braces herself. 

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee.” 

Sherlock puts his notebook away, and still not looking at her, says, “Black, two sugars, please.  I’ll be upstairs.” 

“Oh, okay,” Molly replies, but he’s already out the door, and she knows she's been entirely forgotten.

 


	4. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John meet, and where Sherlock has no idea what's coming for him.

Upstairs in the lab, Sherlock busies himself with his work.  Molly hasn’t brought his coffee yet, but he’s entirely forgotten about her already as he looks at the blood samples in the dish.

_Depending on the alcohol content of the blood.._

He’s using a pipette to squeeze some lactic acid into the blood, curious as to the reaction, when there’s a knock at the door that swings it open.  Mike Stamford, one of the professors, shuffles himself into the room, a small, light coloured man following behind, limping, using a cane to support his weight.

Sherlock barely glances at them before returning to his work, eyes cast down again.  Stamford was always coming in with friends; he’s something of an anomaly to him, a source of entertainment.

While he prides himself in his natural aloofness, a part of him mislikes the fact that he’s something of a freak show to Stamford, something to play with.

It’s not the most comfortable of thoughts.

Glancing at the other man, Sherlock sees that he’s limping into the room, eyeing all the equipment with something like surprise.  Not surprise at the nature of the equipment itself–no, this lighter man knows what these machines are–but he seems to be almost…proud.

As if to prove Sherlock’s deductions, the man says, “Well, bit different from my day,” with something of a short laugh after it.  His voice is on the higher side, and the lilt of his speech is quick and humorous.  Not irritating, at all.  Most people are, to the consulting detective.  This man’s demeanour is affable and relaxed.

_Well, except for his post-traumatic-stress-disorder from the war and psychosomatic limp, that is._

“You’ve no idea!” Stamford replies to John’s earlier comment, and Sherlock realises that they’re still taking in the room.  Typical.  _What must it be like, to live inside their minds?_

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock asks, not wanting to move the ten feet to the desk where his phone lay.  Why waste the energy?

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Stamford says.

_Just do what I bloody ask, you fool._

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry, It’s in my coat.”

“Uh, here.  Use mine.”

Sherlock turns to the newcomer to see him fishing in his back pocket to grab what must be his phone.  He’s moderately surprised, as most people don’t trust strangers with their mobiles that quickly.  _Confidence of ability to stay in control of the situation, perhaps a Captain in the army?_

“Oh. Thank you.”

As Sherlock takes the phone from the smaller man, his fingertips touch the other’s, and he notices that they are not callused as he would have suspected, but smooth and firm.  _Surgeon.  That explains the familiarity with St. Bart’s and with the equipment here. Former student?_

Glancing briefly at Mike, Sherlock flips the keypad open on the phone and sends a quick text.

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq,” he asks.

“Sorry?” John replies.

“Which is it–Afghanistan or Iraq?”

He briefly raises his eyes to John’s, noting their blue colour and the tanned lines in his face.  Mid-thirties.

“Afghanistan.  Sorry, how did you know…?”

The door opens and Molly comes in holding a cup of coffee.  He’d forgotten about it, but some caffeine might help level him out some.  And the sugar, for sure.  Had he eaten anything today?  He isn’t sure.

“Ah, Molly, coffee.  Thank you.”

He flips the phone closed and hands it back to John, who takes it and pockets it again.  His cane is loosely in his hand, not being used.  He seems to have forgotten it.  Behind him, the countertops gleam stainless silver in the white light, and he can see Mike Stamford’s almost-smirk in the reflection.  Molly shifts in front of him, seemingly nervous.  Her mouth is paler, the lipstick is gone.

“What happened to the lipstick,” Sherlock asks the woman.

“It wasn’t working for me,” she says, giving him an awkward smile.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement.  Your mouth is too small now.  Proportionally speaking.”

Molly’s mouth drops open slightly as he turns and walks back to his microscope and petri dish.  “…okay.”  She leaves, bustling out the door and taking some of the awkwardness with her.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

John glances round to Molly, but she’s already gone.  Mike is smirking by the door, still, and he eventually realises that Sherlock is talking to nobody else but him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

_Slow._

Sherlock types up his findings on his laptop as he speaks, filling the air with the explanations that the mundane seem to need.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking.  Sometimes, I don’t talk for days on end.  Would that bother you?  Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” he looks around at John, who stares blankly before colour and understanding fill his eyes.

“Oh, you…you told him about me?” he directs this to Mike, who shakes his head.

“Not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John asks Sherlock.

Sherlock picks up his coat from the chair next to him, swinging it onto his shoulders.  It settles onto his frame with a protective weight.  Something he enjoys, and knows makes him look taller, and, he hopes, more intimidating.

“I did,” he says back. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.  Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan.  Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

Sherlock ignores this, and ties his scarf around his neck, picking up his mobile and checking it.  Service after all, phone finally within reach.

“Got my eye on a little place in central London.  Together we ought to be able to afford it.”

He walks toward the door, coat swinging behind him, and pockets his mobile.

_He seems reasonable enough, if a bit slow._

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock.  Sorry–gotta dash.  I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

He heads to the door, but John’s words slow his pace.

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?”

“Problem?”

Mike watches from behind the two men, smiling at the exchange.

John is getting visibly irritated, Sherlock genuinely nonplussed.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock stops, and turns, looking at the other man–at John–with newfound curiosity.  The Captain is all reason and sense, needing the facts, and not being frightened of doing what he can to find them out.  _Curious._

“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan.  I know you’re got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him–possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.  And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic–quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

John shuffles awkwardly.

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

He turns and walks out of the door, but then leans back into the room.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 2-2-1-B Baker Street.”

He winks at John, who looks startled, and gives a nod to Mike.

“Afternoon.”

* * *

John flexes his hand and looks down at his feet.  He hadn’t expected his private life laid out so…plainly.  It was almost embarrassing, the simplicity of it, the lines drawn here, the events that caused this pointing there.  Like a flowchart from when he was at Uni, the whole last several years of his life were just spread out into the room by this man in front of him, who’s name he didn’t even know until fifteen seconds ago.

Mike smiles at him and puts his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Yeah. He’s always like that.”

John looks down at the mobile and reads the sent folder.  It’s empty–he doesn’t text much–except for one message.

** If brother has green ladder  
arrest brother **

** SH **

John looks at the message for a long moment, and then opens the browser on the phone, navigating to a search engine.  He Googles “SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

A blog, several published works, papers and newspaper articles.  There’s a vast amount of information available about his flatmate-to-be, and he plans on spending a good deal of time reading it over before they meet up tomorrow.


	5. The Game is On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John meets the skull and Mrs. Hudson, and when Sherlock begins a game of "let's make John uncomfortable" while he solves a murder.

_221b, Baker St_ , the card reads.

John Watson looks up at the street.  Baker Street.  He’s in the right part of town, on the right block.  Now only to find the actual building.

He limps down the road.  To either side, three storey buildings line the cobbled streets.  A few little shops nestle beneath some of the flats, an Indian restaurant that labels itself as the “fastest curry in London,” and a little sandwich shop called “Speedy’s.”

_Oh, there it is. Not too far down from the underground.  Not bad, really.  But perhaps it’s a bit pricey.  This is a nice street._

John reaches the door just as a black cab pulls up to the kerbside.  Not paying it any mind, he knocks on the door just as the lanky Mr. Holmes pulls himself out of the cab, passing some money through the window.

“Hello,” he says, and turns to thank the driver.

John turns to his potential new flatmate as he walks towards him.  In the remaining light of day, the man seems almost taller than before.  Dark hair curls close to his head, skin nearly translucent and unmarred, eyes a sea foam blue.  He suddenly realises that the man before him is much too skinny.  Far too, in fact.  His face has a peaked look to it, all sharp edges and bones.  His frame, inside the coat, must be small too.  The doctor in him feels a stab of worry.  He really is quite thin.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” John says, walking to the man.  
“Sherlock, please!” Sherlock replies.

They shake hands, and John is unsurprised to find that Sherlock’s grip is strong, but a long mess of bony (as expected) fingers with skin that is actually a bit rough, perhaps from the chemicals he uses in the lab?

Sherlock, on the other hand, is surprised at the smaller man’s grip.  It’s strong, stronger than expected, and rough with callouses that he wouldn’t have deducted from the doctor’s profession–army or no army.  He has seen action.  _But you should have known that, honestly._

“Well, this is a prime spot.  Must be expensive.”  John can’t quite keep the nervousness out of his voice.  It’s not easy, being on an army pension.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal.  Owes me a favour.  A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida.  I was able to help out,” says Sherlock offhandedly.

“Sorry,” John says, bewildered, “you stopped her husband from being executed?”

“Oh no, I ensured it,” Sherlock ends this with a grin, when the front door of the flat is opened by a lady, with dyed-reddish hair and pink lipstick, wearing an apron, who must be Mrs. Hudson.

She opens her arms to the taller man. “Sherlock, hello!”

It comes out as “Sheeerlock,” John notices.  She seems like a sweet lady.

Sherlock walks into her arms, hugging her briefly.  She pats him on the back in a motherly way, but Sherlock breaks the contact moderately quickly.  She smiles at him knowingly, patting his shoulder as she turns back to the door.

“Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson.”

“Hello,” she says, smiling, crow’s feet and laugh lines deepening in her old face.

“How do?” he says politely.

She gestures him in, waving aside ceremony. “Come in!”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock nearly bounces on the balls of his feet with impatience.  _Can’t they hurry it up a bit?_

But he can’t help but admit that he’s a bit excited by the idea of having a flatmate.  This would be interesting, truly.  How will this doctor react to the flat?  To the detective work?  To Sherlock?

He’d have to wait, watch, and see.

“Shall we,” he says impatiently, putting his hands together.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson says, closing the door behind the two men.

Sherlock trots up the stairs, heading to the first floor.  The old, dark stairs creak, and an additional thunk sounds for each step John takes, his cane wobbling under him as he puffs out breaths of air.  Maybe this would be too difficult for him?

_You have to reintegrate at some point, might as well start with some stairs at home._

John reaches the top just as Sherlock opens the door ahead and walks in, revealing the living room at the end of a very short hallway.  It’s cluttered, John notices immediately.  He keeps his surroundings very neat, being a doctor by profession, and having things neatly arranged came with the job.

_So much junk!_

Under the clutter, however, the flat is nicely laid out, as so far as he can see.  A large living room with two big windows that let in a great amount of light, an arch leading into a linoleum-floored kitchen, what must be a back bedroom and bathroom, and a dark set of stairs he assumes leads to the second bedroom.

“Well, this could be very nice.  Very nice indeed,” he says, turning in a circle and taking it in again.

Sherlock has removed his coat and hung it in the hall.  He is as rail thin as John had expected.  Definitely not an eater.

“Yes, yes I think so.  My thoughts precisely,” Sherlock replies, and looks happily around the flat. “So I went straight ahead and moved in”

John almost misses the last statement, as he had also just finished saying, “soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out.”

“Oh.”

“So this is all…”

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit.”

John watches as the man, who he thoroughly thinks as odd now, makes a half-assed attempt to tidy up.  It’s almost funny really, watching his attempts.  Sherlock throws several files into a box, and tosses some unopened envelopes on the mantel.  Before John can stop him, he’s thrust a knife into them, pinning them to the mantel.

That’s not what really draws his attention, however, for on the mantel sits a skull.  It doesn’t take years of medical training to realize it’s real.  Actual 100% human.

“That’s a skull.” It’s not a question.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock pauses, presumably realising what that sounded like, “When I say ‘friend’…”

Mrs. Hudson pops into the room, and smiles at John, hands in her apron pockets.

“What do you think, Dr. Watson?  There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

“Of course we’ll be needing two,” he says, looking to Sherlock for help.  The man seems oblivious to the fact that Mrs. Hudson is implying that…

Well, that they’re gay.

“Oh don’t worry! We’ve got all sorts round here,” her voice drops conspiratorially to a whisper, “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.”

John looks imploringly at Sherlock again, but he seems not to notice.

Mrs. Hudson has gone into the kitchen, and John turns back to her as she frowns and surveys the room.

“Sherlock, the mess you’ve made!”

_She sounds like an irritated mother,_ John thinks.

The landlady bustles around the room, picking up a teacup and saucer, tidying up the room.

John’s leg twinges, and he looks at the two armchair in front of the hearth, debating.  The left one looks more worn, but comfortable.  The right…leather and more modern.  No, he’ll take the left one.  Plumping a Union Jack cushion, he plops down into the seat, adjusting his leg so as to make it hurt the least.

He looks up at Sherlock, lit by the window, who is still attempting to tidy up.  He hasn’t really succeeded in cleaning, only in moving the piles around.

“Looked you up on the Internet last night,” John says.

Sherlock stops, and looks at him thoughtfully.

“Anything interesting?”

“Found your website; The Science of Deduction.”

Sherlock smiles with what can only be pride.  “What did you think?”

John’s pointed stare must be one of skepticism, because Sherlock’s grin falters, and he looks almost hurt.

“You said you could identify a software developer by his tie, and an airplane pilot by his left thumb.”

“Yes, and I read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone,” his eyes have grown cold.

“How?” John asks.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch, and he turns away to the papers on the desk–or at least, what must be the desk under the piles of filing.  But despite the slight smile, his back remains stiff.

Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen holding the newspaper at that moment, a worried look on her face.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?  I thought that’d be right up your street.  Three, exactly the same!”

Sherlock is at the window, bright light washing out his features.  He pulls back the sheer curtain to look to the street.

“Four.”

Flashing lights suddenly reach into the room, and John understands that the police must be outside the door.  He looks to the stairs suddenly, as a man, taking them two at a time, climbs and steps into the doorway.

“There’s been a fourth, and something’s different this time.”

* * *

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson says, putting a hand over her mouth.

Sherlock turns to Detective Lestrade as he crosses the threshold.

“Where?” he asks, not bothering to greet the DI.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one?  You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

Lestrade grins.  “You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yeah.”

“This one did.  Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics,” Sherlock asks.

_Not Anderson._

“It’s Anderson.”

_Fuck._

Sherlock grimaces turning his face aside.  He puts a hand in his jacket pocket.  “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” Lestrade corrects.

“I need an assistant.”

Lestrade ignores him.  He always seems to know how to do that, just ignore the dramatic bits and get to the point.  It’s one of the only reasons Sherlock will even consider working with him.  The man knows where and when to add filler conversation…and when it’s an utter nuisance.

“Will you come?”

“Not in a police car.  I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade’s relief is a physical thing.  Sherlock sees his shoulders drop two inches as he relaxes.

Lestrade glances at the room for a moment, then hurries down the stairs again.  There’s the sound of the front door clicking closed, the knocker bouncing.  Sherlock tenses, waits, until the lights disappear.

He grins, and leaps into the air, clenching his fists and twirling happily around the room.

He notices John’s intrigued look, Mrs. Hudson’s appalled one.  The fact that John isn’t utterly frightened by now, by him, is absolutely fascinating.  What fun, what a game.  What else could he do to scare off the man?

“Brilliant,” he nearly shouts.  “Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note!  Oh, it’s Christmas!”

He grabs his scarf off of the hook by the door, and wraps it around his thin neck.  It’s already chilled from being away from his body heat, and he resists a shiver.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late.  Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, dearie, not your housekeeper.”

“Something cold will do.  John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home.  Don’t wait up!”

He grabs a small leather pouch from the table, and goes through the kitchen door to the hall, grabbing his coat.  He swings it around his shoulders, heavy and warm.  He listens intently.

“Look at him, dashing about!  My husband was just the same.”

_Oh, is that what she thinks?  No wonder Watson was giving me looks.  Wishful thinking, on her part, I think._

“But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell.”

_Definitely not.  This man’s aching for action.  Repressed desires._

“I’ll make you that cuppa.  You rest your leg.”

Sherlock smiles as John roars, “Damn my leg!”

“Sorry, I’m so sorry.  It’s jut that sometimes this bloody thing…”

There’s an audible click as he likely taps his cane against his leg.

“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip.”

_Not as invalided as you think, Mrs. Hudson._

“Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you,” John says, sighing.

“Just this once, dear.  I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got them.”

Sherlock smiles fully, eyes crinkling.

“Not your housekeeper!” Mrs. Hudson calls.

There’s a rustle as John picks up the newspaper from the table next to the chair.  Sherlock comes round the threshold of the door, pausing as he tucks his scarf into his coat.  John is eyeing the photographs of the previous victims–for victims they truly are–and Sherlock sees the moment where he realises the man in the living room just ten minutes ago is the DI of New Scotland Yard, Greg (Gary?) Lestrade.

“You’re a doctor.  In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”

“Yes,” John says, looking up at the taller man.  He gets to his feet as Sherlock comes closer.

“Any good?”

John’s face firms with what can only be described as confidence.

“Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths,” Sherlock probes.

“Mmm, yes.”

_Breathing slowed, calmer.  Pulse slower, eyes slightly dilated.  I detect…desire._

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes.  Enough for a lifetime.  Far too much,” John’s voice has gotten low and quiet.

“Wanna see some more?”

“Oh God, yes.”

_Triumph._

He turns around, coat whipping behind him, and heads down the stairs.  John is hard on his heels.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea.  Off out!”

“Both of you,” she asks, coming out of her door.

Sherlock turns back from the front door, heading towards her and putting his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Impossible suicides?  Four of them?  There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”  He kisses her cheek and smiles.

“Look at you, all happy.  It’s not decent!”  Her expression belies her words, however, and she smiles at him with warmth.  He even feels it, somewhere beneath his whirring mind.  The little old lady has found a spot in his woollen-clad heart.

“Who cares about decent?” he says.  “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

Bursting out into the street, he hails a cab with a sharp, “Taxi!”, and soon he and John are on their way, winding down the cobbled streets to solve a murder.

For murder is what this truly is.


End file.
